


By The Gun

by tangylemoncakes (willhanniclary)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Control Issues, Creepyshipping, Dark!Sansa, F/M, Mafia AU, Mobster AU, Older Man/Younger Woman, Power Dynamics, gruesome twosome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-25 01:12:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3791092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willhanniclary/pseuds/tangylemoncakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This world was all blood and family names and that phrase she couldn’t shake out of her head no matter how hard she tried to forget. </p><p>You live and die by the gun and the knife. </p><p>(Mobster AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. pyre

**Author's Note:**

> Hey kids! Here's an Mobster AU for you guys. I creepyship for life, hail satan. IF you don't like the ship then you will not like this story. Not for kiddos either. Unbeta'd, all mistakes are my own. I made a fanmix for this because I'm trash, here's the url: http://8tracks.com/nattiegan/by-the-gun  
> Reviews are appreciated but not at all required. Enjoy! :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bring all your things and we will build a pyre  
> Find resurrection in the flames  
> And in the fury of alarm bells  
> We shalt begin  
> We shalt begin again

Sansa didn’t dream much anymore. But when she did, the dreams were relentless all through the night.

Tonight, it seemed as though every time she drifted into sleep, her mind concocted some new torture for her to suffer in her dreamscape. She couldn’t remember them in exact detail, only quick flashes. In one dream, Joffrey hits her and screams obscenities and insults. In another, she sees Robb get shot in the head not three feet from her, and his blood hits her face with a slick splattering sound. The worst dream is one of an average bickering match with Arya; it was the worst one because she woke with tears in her eyes, a painful longing curled in her chest. Sansa missed her more than she could bear, and that was the last straw. It was 4:15 in the morning but she didn’t attempt sleep again.

Instead, she climbed out on her fire escape with a full pack of cigarettes and chain smoked until the sun started to bleed across the eastern sky. She thinks about all of them; her parents, her siblings, the people who died in the crossfire. Sullenly gazing at the winding smoke that drifts out of her mouth, she thought of how her mother might have scolded her about the cigarettes and imagined the infamous look of solemn disappointment her father would wear. Being scolded by a parent was a relic of another time. A time before her father relocated the family to Chicago. A time before there was a price on the head of every Stark.

But if she lingered in those thoughts too long, she’d start to consider flinging herself off of the fire escape.

Sansa climbed back in her window an hour later and hunted in the dim light of the dawning sun for her apron. She showed up early for work at the budget hotel three blocks over. Sansa Stark wouldn’t have even dreamt of staying in this hotel for a single night, but Alayne Stone is one of the newer hires on the cleaning staff. Sansa had never worked a day in her life, but Alayne was rather industrious and did not mind picking up extra hours. The murky line between the two of them was beginning to blur.

“Morning, Alayne.” Shae greeted her as she set her things down in their small rec room. “You look like shit.”

Sansa smiled wryly. Shae was nothing if not blunt, but in addition, she also happened to be hilarious, beautiful, and tough as any woman Sansa had ever met. And she was kind to boot, gently correcting Sansa in her lilting accent whenever she made a silly mistake. “I couldn’t sleep last night.”

Shae quirked her mouth and scanned Sansa suspiciously, “You’ve been working here for three months and every month you look skinner and paler. What do you eat?”

“What I can afford.”

“You have to know what to buy with your money to keep yourself healthy. It’s poor single woman 101.” Shae quips. And to think, Sansa had been feeling nostalgic about being scolded just this morning. “Along with knowing how to shank someone with your apartment keys and persuading your landlord to postpone your rent.”

Sansa turned and readied their cleaning cart, taking inventory of all the items that needed stocking up before they headed out for the day. “You strike me as the kind of woman who carries an actual shank.”

“Oh, _I_ do. But we’re discussing you.” _Let’s not._

Shae was nice, but Sansa often found herself deflecting when their conversations turned even slightly personal. “Look, I’m great. Peachy. Can we just work?”

Shae stopped at that and took Sansa by the shoulders, stilling her for a moment. “I worry about you, that’s all. It just seems like…” She paused and appeared to consider how to phrase her next observation. “Like you don’t know how to take care of yourself. Like you’re hiding.”

Sansa froze. “What are you talking about?”

Sighing like it should be blatantly obvious, Shae continued, “You didn’t even know how to make a bed properly when you started, even though you told me you had a house cleaning job when you lived in Florida, where you definitely did not live.” Sansa swallowed her panic and didn’t even bother to ask how Shae knew she wasn’t from where she said she was from. _Does it matter?_ A Lannister could pay her two hundred bucks for all these little remarks and she’d be right back in their clutches. _In hiding my ass._ “If somebody slams a door by accident you jump ten feet. You never look anyone in the eyes, not even me.” Shae took her chin between two fingers and gently made Sansa look at her. “Is some guy after you? Did he hurt you? There are places that help women who’ve been hurt-“

Sansa laughed out loud, vaguely sounding as though she were actually choking, “No, Shae. It’s nothing like that.” _I mean, my ex was sadistic and abusive but even if he was alive, he'd be the least of my problems._ “Can we just work?” She asked again, steeling herself as much as possible. “I honestly just come here to work, does the rest matter?”

Brown eyes softening, Shae let her chin go. “No, kid. I guess it doesn’t.” She gets behind the cart and pushes it out the door with ease. “Come on, we’re starting on floor five today.”

Watching her leave, Sansa fought a lump in her throat. _I’ll never be a kid._

*****

On her lunch break, Sansa checked the roots of her hair with paranoid distain in the maid’s bathroom. The red was beginning to peak through again, becoming noticeable against the deep shade of cold brown she’d dyed her hair. A sick, sad feeling welled inside her at the sight of her mother’s red, a deep frustration that tempted her to punch the dingy mirror and feel it crack against her fist.

She was failing.

Escaping the Lannister’s was a fluke. She was not Arya. She didn’t daringly disappear the moment they’d blown her father’s head to pieces. The only reason she even got out of the house was because the drunken lackey who had been guarding her the night Joffrey died had silently ushered her to the back door and turned the other way. Sansa had even forgotten his name, the only person in the Lannister household who showed her a shred of kindness instead of looking elsewhere whilst she was beaten and taunted. The memory of Cersei’s sadistic smile sent shudders up her spine. If the Lannister matriarch had hated her before, she downright despised her now.

 _But it wasn’t me. I didn’t poison Joffrey. Where would I have even gotten poison?_ Logic had no place in the world she lived in now, it was all blood and family names and that phrase she couldn’t shake out of her head no matter how hard she tried to forget.

_You live and die by the gun and the knife._

That’s what her father had told her when they’d moved, what Robert Baratheon ranted about in his intoxicated ramblings, what Tywin Lannister uttered in his disinterested monotone before having someone shot at point blank range. It was an old adage among crime families, but Sansa wasn’t even sure she understood what it meant. She hadn’t even known she was in a crime family until two years ago, which seems insane to her now.

Up until then, she’d just been another rich girl in Minnesota, dallying her days away in her father’s big house on lake Minnetonka, attending a private all-girls school where her peers adored her, where she had friends. Her father had owned a very successful luxury car dealership, and she’d had her own maids to make her bed and clean her bathroom. _What a fool I was._

She didn’t miss being vapid and foolish, but she missed the fresh smell of a new snow and the big done-up holidays and her family being alive and happy. Snow didn’t smell the same in Chicago. It smelled of smog and grit.

A loud banging noise outside the bathroom door make her jump. Instinctually, she flipped the lights off and flung her back against the wall, straining to hear muffled voices outside, drawing closer.

“…she might be under a fake name. Red hair, pale, 19 years old. Seen her around here?” Sansa felt light headed and clutched the dirty wall for brace and balance. They’d found her. How had they found her? She took this job specifically so she could stay out of sight. _Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck._

“Our boss doesn’t hire girls that young. They’re very unreliable.” She heard Shae’s even voice and shut her eyes tight, willing herself not to let them burn. _Oh, Shae. Please don’t be stupid. These people are so dangerous._ “I don’t recognize her.”

The man made a huffing noise. “We received reliable information that she was sighted here in a maid’s apron.” She recognized that voice. Cersei’s watchdog, Trant, Trout, Sansa couldn’t remember his name, but she once had bruises to remember his fist by. Her heart rate spiked even higher. If he found her, he’d drag her back to that dreadful house of nightmares by her hair and she’d likely be killed for a crime she didn’t commit.

Sansa could almost hear the shrugging motion in Shae’s voice. “She might have stopped for a night to sleep? Look, all I can tell you is she doesn’t work here. I have two more floors to get cleaned before my shift ends.” Sansa held her breath.

“Fine. Go.” She heard Shae’s light footsteps past the door, but the man appeared to linger.

 _Walk away, you violent idiot. Sansa Stark is dead. And you don’t want Alayne._ She repeated the phrase to herself to keep from counting the seconds until he left. _Sansa Stark is dead, Sansa Stark is dead, Sansa Stark is de-_

A furious knocking on the door startled her. “ _Alayne!”_

She yanks the door open, and there is Shae, with her ever-worried brown eyes and an envelope in her hands. “Take this. Go straight to the Greyhound station and buy yourself a ticket for a bus that goes as far away from Chicago as possible.” Sansa knew there was money inside, money Shae probably couldn’t afford to spare. Her eyes filled with unbidden tears as she tried to think of what to say. “Don’t wait. Go out the back door and use the alleys. Go, Alayne!”

Without a word, Sansa took off running down the hall and flew out the back door, refusing to look behind her.

*****

There wasn’t a back door to the seedy apartment building she resided in, so she watched the front door from the alley across the street for fifteen minutes before she dared to cross the street and rush inside. The elevator had been out of order for as long as she’d been living there, likely longer, so she tore up the five flights of stairs with an urgency she hadn’t felt in months.

Sansa had let herself get comfortable. It wouldn’t happen again.

Hands shaking, she clumsily unlocked her apartment door and rushed inside, yanking her duffel bag out from under the bed and throwing Shae’s envelope inside, before turning to her dresser. But before she could pull out the top drawer, the fact that her bathroom light was on caught her attention. _I never forget to turn that light off._

From her vantage point, she could only see that the door was half open, but not what or who was inside. _I probably forgot today. I was tired._ All rationalizations flew from her mind when the door was opened further to reveal a man in her bathroom.

She didn’t even look at him before she ran to her door, but he was quick. The minute she pulled it towards her, he pushed it back from behind her with a strong arm, effectively closing it. She opened her mouth to scream, but his other hand was already at her mouth, his lips at her ear. “Shhh, Sansa. Don’t scream. You don’t want the Lannisters to hear, do you?”

Sansa barely listened. She struggled hard against his arms and managed to turn herself around to face her intruder whilst shoving him back a few feet. “Who the _fuck_ are you and what are you doing in my apartment?” He smirked. He was in his early forties maybe, if not his late thirties, and wore a pressed dark gray button up that was tucked in to his dress pants. He had that look about him, the look of men in the game. The game she was trying to escape. And he knew her name, who she was running from. She forced herself not to look at her bed, where she hid a knife under her pillow. She couldn’t give that card away, as it might have been the only one she had just then.

“You wound me, sweetling. Surely I’ve not aged terribly since our last meeting.” He straightened and put his hands up in a conceding motion. “I’m not here to hurt you, Sansa.”

She took a second, longer look at him, before realizing she did recognize him. _Holy shit._ She’d met him a couple times when her family had first relocated to Chicago. He’d been at parties thrown in her father’s honor by Robert Baratheon to celebrate his return to the city. She remembered how he’d kissed her knuckles when he introduced herself and called her _sweetling,_ and the distainful look on her mother’s face when he did. He’d spent most of the time at those parties sitting in shadowed corners with other suspicious looking men, swirling amber liquid in a glass and sometimes catching her eye from across the room. “Littlefinger.”

He crinkled his nose at that. “Please call me Petyr. I despise that nickname.”

“But you did earn it.” She shot back. What little information she remembered was trickling back. She’d heard her father telling Robert he was a wildcard, not to be trusted. Her mother had told her to steer clear of him. _He’s one of many dangerous men who work with your father, Sansa._

That seemed to amuse him. “Yes, I did.”

A pause stretched between them while the sized each other up. She probably couldn’t make a break for it, and he’d already proven he was strong enough to subdue her. “You need to leave.”

“So you can take that money your little friend gave you and run to the bus station? That’s a bad idea. They’re waiting for you there.”

She paled. “The Lannisters?”

Littlefinger nodded. “They have eyes all over. But, lucky for you, so do I.” Sansa regarded him with distrust. Worrying her lip between her teeth, she noticed that he was clutching something. A picture she recognized as the one she’d taped to her mirror in the bathroom. It was of Sansa and her mother during a humid Minnesota summer, feet dangling off the docks with their hands entwined, smiling. Littlefinger caught her gaze, and looked down at the picture, then back at her. “You do look so much like your mother, Sansa. Even with that atrocious hair color. She wouldn’t want you running around out there, alone. It’s a dangerous world.”

“I get the distinct feeling she wouldn’t want me anywhere near _you_ either.”

“You’re probably right about that.” He chuckled, stepping closer. She instinctively backed up, but her back only hit the door, and he advanced on her still. “But your mother lacked a knack for self-preservation, and you don’t. They killed your father and she banded with your brother to try to restore honor to an honorless world. And she got herself and her children killed.” She bristled at his comments, his closeness. He brushed her hair out of her face and tucked it behind her ear. “They think you killed Joffrey.”

Sansa glared at him. “I didn’t kill Joffrey.”

“ _I_ know that. But Cersei doesn’t. I doubt she’d even care. Truth does not have much of a place in this world of ours, and the only thing Cersei understands is blood.” He tried to brush his thumb against her cheek, but she shirked away from him. “Do you want to die, Sansa?”

“Of course not.” She snapped.

There it was again, that smirk. That knowing look. “I’m the best chance you have at surviving.”


	2. i'm not calling you a liar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a ghost in my lungs  
> And it sighs in my sleep  
> Wraps itself around my tongue  
> As it softly weeps  
> Then it walks, then it walks, with my legs  
> To fall, to fall, to fall at your feet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear to God creepyshippers are literally the nicest people ever. I heart you all. Please enjoy this chapter :)

Sansa was poised to counter his statement when his phone started to ring. He cast an unreadable expression in her direction before answering. “Baelish.”

She couldn’t hear the words coming through the receiver, but she recognized a distinctly male voice, fast and gruff. Her pulse quickened. “I’ll meet you there.” He hangs up the phone and places the picture of Sansa and her mother in her duffel, almost with reverence. “That was Trant. I’m sure you remember him.” _You have no idea._ “He’ll be arriving in just under fifteen minutes. Pack a few things, only what you can’t leave. My car is around the east side of the building.”

A silence stretched between them, charged with tension Sansa couldn’t place. She felt a burning behind her eyes, but she’d become so accustomed to holding back her tears. “You can’t make me go anywhere.” She finally said, allowing herself a glance at the pillow. She could reach for the knife. She could try to injure him enough to get a head start. To what end, though? _The Lannisters have friends everywhere. Including him._

“No, I can’t.” He murmured, but looked almost amused, like he knew what she was considering.

“You work for them.”

“I work _with_ them. When it suits me.”

Sansa quirked an eyebrow, “And delivering them the girl who murdered their prized son doesn’t suit you? They’d reward you.” She narrowed her eyes, “Why pass up that opportunity?”

He seemed pleased at her observations and his expression remained entertained, “I would find it much more rewarding to have you alive. With me. Now _that_ is truly an opportunity.” _An opportunity for what? I don’t know anything about this man. I’m stepping into a situation I can’t control._ Sensing her hesitation, he continued, taking her face in his hands, “Don’t trust me. Don’t trust anyone. But learn to weigh the options in front of you. If you stay here, you will die. If you run, you will die. If you come with me…” he paused for effect, considering her face as he brushed a thumb across her cheek in a way that made her shiver, “…you might not.”

She snorted, an entirely unladylike noise. _What a convincing argument._ But she knew the truth. She knew he was right. Her best shot was to take his help now, and reevaluate later. There wasn’t time for anything else. Wordlessly, she pushed passed him and hurriedly tore the essentials out of her drawers. Some clothes, old photos, a tiny box of keepsakes, a stuffed doll her father bought for her, once upon a time. She felt his eyes on her as he stood in front of the door, carefully regarding her. The last thing she took was a box of hair dye from under her sink, the last one. She needed to redo her roots, and this way, whoever came to search the place would have no inkling she’d been dying her hair.

When she was finished, she stood in front of him with her duffel bag and motioned for him to move aside. He looked like the cat that got the canary, and she had a feeling she would always feel unsettled around this man. “East side of the building, right?”

He grinned at her and stalked towards her in a few easy strides until their noses nearly touched, before dipping her head down by her chin so he could place a kiss to her forehead. “Go, sweetling.”

*****

The pristine vehicle was instantly recognizable in the grungy neighborhood. It was a sleek black Escalade with heavily tinted windows, and it was running. Sansa weighed her options; back seat or passenger? Before she could chose, the window rolled down. A pretty woman with a strained expression sat in the driver’s seat. “Throw that thing in the backseat and get in here, fast.” With that, she rolled the window back up, and Sansa heard the distinct click of the doors unlocking. She did what she was told and climbed in the passenger seat. The woman hit the lock button immediately upon her entry and peeled out of the alley. The car pulled past the front of the apartment building and Sansa sunk in her seat when she recognized Meryn Trant gruffly yanking the front door open, followed by something like seven men, guns on their belts and all dressed in black.

“They can’t see you, you know.” Sansa didn’t know what she should say in response so she opted for silence, and staring straight ahead into the late afternoon traffic. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the woman driving glance in her direction. “I’m Ros, by the way.”

Ros drove like a bat out of hell through the busy Chicago streets, passing even the lane-weaving taxis. It reminded Sansa of Arya’s driving when she had been practicing to get her permit all those years ago. She wanted to laugh, and she wanted to crumble into herself all the same. How could the pain be so unbearable, bubbling through her chest when she didn’t pay enough attention to keeping it buried? Everything reminded Sansa of Arya, of her whole family, really. She’d hear a sportscast on the radio and think instantly of Jon and Robb, betting on their favorite teams. She saw mothers and daughters in public and though of her own mother, with her kind eyes and wise advice for every situation.

Alayne didn’t have any family; as long as she’d been Alayne, she could push the loss from her mind, be somebody else. But Sansa had a void of grief in her heart that she couldn’t close, no matter how desperately she tried.

Willing herself to find distraction, she stole a glance at Ros. She indeed was very pretty. Her hair was a dark strawberry blonde, not as fiery as Sansa’s natural Tully hair, but still lovely. She had an unmoving expression that spoke to years of keeping herself in check and brown eyes that reminded Sansa of Shae. _God, I hope she’s okay._

Sansa considered asking Ros polite questions about herself, or perhaps trying to pry some information about Littlefinger out of her, but she stayed silent. There was time for these things later.

After driving for some time, Ros weaved them into a secluded, upscale neighborhood on the North side of the city. People here had taken care to plant trees and build fences, for privacy from each other, she assumed. It didn’t seem like the kind of neighborhood where kids rode their bikes in the streets. Rose finally slowed in front of what looked like the most secluded house of all, painted a slate gray. The driveway was long and winding, and at the end of it there was a large garage, which Ros accelerated into before cutting the engine. She seemed to hesitate for a moment.

“I know he’s helping you, but you would be wise to watch yourself with Mr. Baelish.” Her words seemed carefully chosen and deliberate.

Sansa stared straight in front of her at the pristine garage. “I don’t trust him. I don’t trust you.” Sansa stated with a lack of emotion, rephrasing and repeating Baelish’s earlier words like a little mockingbird. “I don’t trust anyone.”

Ros cracked a hardened smile. “Good. Now let’s get you inside.”

*****

The house was, unsurprisingly, immaculate. Ros led her through the garage door into a long hallway that ended in the kitchen. Sansa saw no evidence that it had been recently used. Down another hall was the foyer, the living room, and a staircase that led to the second floor. It wasn’t a very colorful home; it was all muted shades and dark furniture. No pictures hung on the walls. The last time she stayed in an actual house, it was a grand brownstone her family rented upon arriving in Chicago. Baelish’s house did not even feel lived in, much less like an actual home.

Based on the limited knowledge she had of the man, Sansa expected nothing else.

Her guide brought her up the large staircase. “There’s a two spare rooms on the second floor. Mr. Baelish said you could have your choice. The bathroom is the last door on your left.” Ros gestured down the hall. “Get situated. I’ll be downstairs if you need something. Feel free to rest awile.” With that, she turned and descended the stairs, leaving Sansa alone.

She made her choice the minute she stepped through the door across from the bathroom. A large window in the room allowed her a far-off view of the city over the manicured treetops of the sophisticated neighborhood. Taking care with her few possessions, she unpacked, only having enough clothes to fill a drawer and a half. She pondered the envelope full of cash, still sitting at the bottom of her bag. _Suppose I don’t have much use for it at the moment. But I might, later._ She tucks the envelope under her clothes in the top drawer, knowing it wasn’t the best hiding spot, but also knowing her options were rather limited.

Sansa made her way to the bathroom across the hall. It was well decorated, but, like the kitchen, looked unused. She stared at herself in the long oval mirror. Dark circles, pale skin, both only accentuated by her dark brown hair, even with the flaming roots. She didn’t even know who she looked like anymore; Sansa or Alayne or nobody at all. _I don’t have to fuss about my hair. He probably won’t even let me leave the house, why does it matter?_ Still, Sansa found herself returning to her bedroom and retrieving the last box of cheap, drug store dye.

An hour later she climbed out of the shower after washing out the color and sitting under the scalding stream until it ran cold. Sansa threw an old t-shirt and climbed under the sheets of the bed, curling her knees to her chest. The sun was barely beginning to set, but Sansa felt like she could sleep for days. Her last idle thought was pondering whether or not she should lock her door.

*****

When she woke, it was dark, and too quiet. She’d become so used to noise that the lack of it made her uneasy immediately upon waking. Sitting straight up in bed brought her eye-level with the window that endeared her to the room, and outside, the city was still dully awake. Her first instinct was to look for the time, but it had been a year since she actually had her own phone and there was no clock on the bedside table or anywhere else in the room. Sansa sighed, some leftover adrenaline pumping in her veins. She knew she’d been dreaming, but she couldn’t recall a single image. _Does it even matter?_ She had so many horrors to dream of.

Deciding she wanted a cigarette, she plucked her pajama shorts from the top drawer and slid them on, then grabbed her cigarettes from her duffel bag.

Sansa had no idea where Baelish slept, but she knew his room was not on the second floor (she’d looked) Regardless, she tried to move as quietly as she could manage, creeping down the stairs on her toes. Finding herself in the foyer, she considered going out the front door to smoke, and idly wondered if Baelish made use of an alarm system. The last thing she wanted was to wake him. He did, after all, bring her home like a stray dog and shielded her from the Lannisters, no matter the fact that she didn’t find him trustworthy, he had helped her. Sansa wasn’t quite sure how she felt about that yet.

“Going somewhere?” a hushed voice from the dark of the living room startled her. It was Littlefinger, sitting in a black leather armchair shrouded in shadows. She didn’t like that; light from the decorative side windows in the foyer cast the light of the moon upon her so she was clearly visible, but she could hardly make out his form in the darkness.

She held up the pack of cigarettes. “Just going out to smoke, Mr. Baelish. I find myself restless.” _Apparently so do you._ He was silent, and she couldn’t discern for the life of her what he must be thinking. She cleared her throat to break the quiet. “What time is it?”

“Nearly two in the morning.” He murmured, so quiet she nearly did not hear him. “You slept for a good long while. You must eat something.” It was a statement, not a question. He rose out of the shadows and she could see that he was still dressed as he had been earlier. _He hasn’t slept at all._ Baelish motioned for her to follow him down the hall towards to kitchen, where he flicked on a light. The sudden switch from darkness made her blink her eyes forcefully. “Sit.” A statement, not a question.  

Sansa did as she was bid and sat in front of the kitchen counter, noticing a bowl of fruit that hadn’t been there earlier. She smiled wryly, knowing it was purchased for her benefit. He stood across from the island where she was seated, standing and staring. “You dyed your hair again.”

“The red was becoming noticeable.” She answered. “Though I suspect I won’t be allowed to leave, so I guess it doesn’t matter.”

His eyebrows knit together. “You’re not my prisoner, Sansa. We already established that you’re here willingly.” She opened her mouth to say something but he cut her off. “Do you like eggs?”

“Um, sure.”

Baelish nodded. “Let’s have an early breakfast, then.”

And they did. He pulled a pan from one of the sliding drawers, eggs from the refrigerator, and began to cook. She watched him as he scrambled the eggs in a bowl before gently easing them into the pan, where they sizzled. Sansa could not remember the last time she actually watched someone cook, much less for her. She considered him; this well-dressed man in this beautiful home, somehow entangled in the world that had stolen the lives of her family and the comforts of innocence. She strained to remember anything she could about Mr. Baelish, anything her parents or the Lannisters had mentioned in passing, but she drew a blank. The only association that came was the dull repeat of her mother’s own words.

_….one of the many dangerous men who work with your father…_

_Dangerous._

A dangerous man who was now cooking for her at two in the morning.

”Can I help with something?”

“No.” He stated briskly, scrambling the eggs with a spatula and a flick of his wrist. She bristled, annoyed, and feeling slightly awkward just sitting there in her pajamas. He turned from the stove to pop a few pieces of bread into the toaster.

She pondered him again for a moment before remembering something she’d barely taken note of earlier, but still recalled.  “How did you know I didn’t kill Joffrey?”

Baelish stilled for a brief moment before returning to his cooking. “It’s implausible that you killed Joffrey while living under the roof of the Lannisters.” He shot her a glance. “Or rather, while you were being held hostage. You were being watched very closely.” _How would he even know that?_ Sansa could not remember him seeing him even once at the Lannister’s during her time as their caged bird.

“But that’s not what you said.” Baelish halted his cooking completely this time to look at her, almost expectantly.

“No?”

“No. You said you _knew_ I didn’t kill him. And there’s no way you could know that for sure. Not unless…” Her speech stuttered, than stopped. He was still gazing at her, the corners of his mouth slightly upturned, like he was just waiting for her to figure it out. “You killed him.” Baelish neglected to answer, and instead returned himself to the task of finishing the eggs, so she repeated herself. “You killed Joffrey.” He smirked still, a flicker of something like approval crossing his features as he divided the eggs between two plates and retrieved the toast from the oven.

“I didn’t expect you to deduce that so quickly.” Baelish sat the plate in front of her. “Eat.”

 _He doesn’t even deny it!_ Suddenly, she didn’t feel like eating. It must have been since yesterday morning since she had any food at all, and much longer before that since she had anything of actual substance. But Sansa was stunned. Was she really sitting in front of the man who had murdered the person who had single-handedly caused the most pain and mayhem in her life? _Don’t get comfortable._ She reminded herself. _This man is a murderer._ “What a compliment.” She finally said in a sarcastic tone, before taking a bite of her eggs. He had yet to taste his, which gave her pause.

Evidently, he noticed. “I didn’t poison your eggs, Sansa.”

“But you poisoned Joffrey’s food.” She countered, unwilling to let it go.

“His drink, actually. But yes,” Baelish finally admitted. “I poisoned the little shit. He was a sadistic, immature _child_ , next in line to take his grandfather’s place as the head of this city’s most dangerous coalition of organized crime. I don’t like wildcards and Joffrey was incredibly unpredictable.”

“You don’t like wildcards…besides yourself, of course.” Sansa waited for his reaction, but his gaze was so heavy that it cracker her composure and brought a tinge to her cheek. Taken aback by herself, she shoved a forkful of egg in her mouth and cast her glance downward. She’d challenged him to a duel of sorts that she wasn’t entirely sure she could live up to.

Baelish reached across the counter and took her chin firmly between his thumb and his forefinger firmly, forcing her to look at him. “Wildcards are completely erratic. I’d argue that I do not fall into that category, because you can guarantee that I will act always in my own best interest. Most people do, but most people don't do it wisely." _Not like you._  "Remember that, sweetling.” He released her, and pulled another drawer out before setting an ashtray on the table. “Finish your food. You can smoke here, though I will eventually insist that you quit. Then, go back to bed, and sleep as much as you’re able. You’ll need the rest.”

With that, he left the kitchen and she pondered his words, noting that he'd left his own food next to the pan, untouched. 


	3. just one yesterday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (I know I'm bad news, I saved it all for you)  
> I want to teach you a lesson in the worst kind of way  
> Still, I'd trade all my tomorrows for just one yesterday

The next morning when Sansa walked into the kitchen, dressed and ready for the day, she noticed a folded note with her name written across the front.

_Sansa,_

_I will be out of the house until the early afternoon. Please make yourself at home. There is a small library on the first floor, if you’d like to read until I return. There is a sandwich in the fridge for lunch. We’ll speak when I return._

_Until later, sweetling_

_Petyr_

_P.S_

_Thank you for doing the dishes. It was unnecessary._

She couldn’t help but study the last sentence, clearly added as an afterthought, almost scolding her as well as thanking her. Of course she knew it wasn’t _necessary_ , she’d been trying to be polite. The clock over the stove read 10:00 am, which meant she had time to kill. Lots of it. Sighing, she set off to find the library.

The room was compact, but filled to the ceiling with neatly organized stacks of books. Classics, anthologies, almanacs, dictionaries, historical texts, and nonfictions were just of few of the genres she found. After weaving through a few stacks of books, she found a comfortable looking armchair in the back corner of the room, an end table beside it. _Every piece of furniture is made for one person,_ she noted, _he’s clearly used to being alone._

Sansa had always loved to read, and would often choose it over going out with her friends or her sister, much to their displeasure. There were many things she longed for, and one of them was sitting outside on the porch of their old, Northern home, and reading, listening to Jon, Robb, Arya and Bran race about the yard playing one sport or another while she was lost in her novel of choice. She’d even managed to spend a good amount of time reading at the Lannister house, but most of them were Cersei’s books. For a woman who had taken a perverse pleasure in telling Sansa over and over that there were no happy endings in this life, she sure did enjoy her trashy romance novels. Sansa would rather pull out her own teeth for entertainment than read another word penned by Nora Roberts.

She scanned the shelves and pulled a book she thought may be useful to her current situation, _Organized Crime and American Power: A History._ Sansa hadn’t cared about her father’s dealings when he was alive, and had hidden from it as a defense mechanism after his murder. Back then, she hadn’t wanted to know.

_Maybe it’s time I got a clue._

She made herself comfortable in the armchair and opened the book. It wasn’t her porch back home, but it would do.

*****

Petyr Baelish was ordinarily a focused man. He had business to attend to, and despite his lack of sleep, he was determined to be productive. There were so many arrangements to be made. But focus was not coming easy today; pondering the confounding Stark girl, however, was.

He thought back to when he’d first met her, when she was seventeen and her hair was still that unforgettable shade of Tully red. Ned Stark sent ripples through the grapevine with his return to Chicago. Petyr had not expected him to take Robert Baratheon’s offer of the right-hand man position, considering the venom of the disagreement that had ended their friendship so many years before. Back then, it had been no matter. He was well versed in adjusting to unforeseen circumstances.

And then there was _her_ return. _Cat._ He was well aware that she had grown to despise him through the years, despise what he had become. The last word she spoke to him, or rather spit, was _pimp_. No longer was he the lovesick boy that played in the woods with her, outside her father’s grand estate in Boston. That boy died in the alleys of the dark city, and when he walked out of the hospital with more stiches than he could possibly count, he’d become someone else. _And she had the goddamn nerve to resent me for it._ That was how he truly deduced that she’d never cared for him in the way he had for her, nowhere close. _I’ve always loved you as my brother, Petyr, my true brother, please don’t be angry-_

He shut his eyes tight and willed teenaged-Cat’s pleading voice out of his head. Petyr was long over Cat herself; he didn’t even blame her for rejecting him, long past immature grudges. But distrust lingered in him for a lifetime. He had a feeling he shared that sentiment with his new housemate. When they had first met, he had truly thought she was Cat reborn. The hair, the slightly lanky figure, the coquettish smile and the creeping blush. Robert had thrown the biggest get-together for the sophisticated criminals of Chicago, and there was ample opportunity for scheming and schmoozing on a night like that, but he’d spent more time than he’d like to admit to comparing the two of them in his mind. But she’d been naïve and of little interest to him apart from her parentage. _A pretty, girlish fool, not even eighteen._

Petyr realized now that they were physically comparable, but had little else in common. Cat had never the mind for a player in the game they both grew up in, not like he did. She had all the perfect makings of a loyal wife to someone like Eddard, or Brandon. She was clearly a marvelous mother. _But Sansa is different._ It was already so clear to him. He’d watched her from afar as a prisoner of the Lannister’s, though he was sure she’d never noticed him there, busy as she’d been trying to prolong her own life. She impressed him; her endurance, her mask of calm and cool when she must have been screeching internally. Sansa was unpracticed and not the best at pretense, but she was young and self-taught. He could give her credit, certainly. But she did not play on a level anywhere near her potential. _Not yet, at least._ The thought made him grin to himself.

The idea had been swimming in the back of his mind since her father’s death; pawns lived and died all the time in this game, in many instances by his own hand or word. _Not Sansa._ She’d be much too useful to him, and he couldn’t let her be killed. He did what he always did; he bided his time. _I’m a patient man._

And now she was his.  

Petyr left his office, giving up on phone calls and paperwork and planning, to ask Ros to pull the car around. Sansa would be a formidable player yet, but she had to be taught. And her education would begin today.

*****

Somewhere in between chapter 10 and 20, Sansa had forgotten entirely about the coffee she’d brewed for herself to enjoy while she read, and it had long since gone cold by the time she noticed it again. She had expected the book to be informative, but it was gripping as well. Some things she already knew, other things she did not, but one thing was becoming certain; she had many questions.

She knew that both her mother and father’s families were of rich Irish-Catholic descent, two of the oldest crime families in America, dating back nearly two hundred and fifty years. According to the text, Irish organized crime suffered a rivalry and eventually a decline with the arrival of the Italian immigrants. _Like the Lannisters._ Even the voice in her head spat the words with contempt. The more she read, the more confused and angry she became.

Sansa knew the Lannisters were not loyalists to the mafia lifestyle, not in the way that her parents were. _There used to be honor in this life, Sansa._ She remembered her father telling her, _men lived and died by a moral code, they held to ethics, even if they didn’t hold to the law._

She knew as well as many others that the Lannisters broke codes of silence, oaths made in good faith, and mafia law all the time. One rule Sansa studied stated that another man’s wife was never to be coveted by a brother in the game. _If rumors are believable, Jaime and Cersei break the shit out of that rule._ Never be seen with cops? Sansa saw plenty of uniformed officers come and go from the Lannister house. _That’s why I didn’t even bother going to the cops, why Robb and mom didn’t bother either. The only ones with a pay grade high enough to help me were in the Lannister’s pockets._ How were the Lannister’s reigning over organized crime in Chicago if they abided by none of the rules?

“I’m glad you made yourself comfortable.” Sansa made a noise of surprise and startled so hard that the book she’d been intently studying fell right out of her lap. Baelish was leaning against one of the bookcases, an amused smirk on his face that bloomed into a chuckle at her reaction to his presence. He waltzed forward and took the book from the ground, scanning the title as he did. Baelish was so close, and she felt his sudden close presence acutely. He lifted an eyebrow at her choice of reading material. “I’m surprised to find you reading this. There is a Jane Austen collection just there.” He gestured to the shelf of classics. Sansa did not miss the slight in his comment. _So that’s the game you want to play?_

“How kind of you to point that out.” She deadpanned, standing from her chair to meet him at eye level. Sansa knew if she drew a large enough breath, her chest would touch his, and she couldn’t place why exactly that made her heart race. “I never favored Jane Austen. I prefer darker tales.”

Baelish smirked, allowing his eyes to flicker towards her lips for a fraction of a second. Just long enough for her to notice. “Tales of woe?”

“Tales of human nature. The darkness within every person.” She nonchalantly passed him, delibrately brushing her body against his in the process. Sansa watched him from the corner of her eye and saw him stiffen slightly. _Small victory._ Something about making him uncomfortable excited her, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt truly excited by anything. She felt his eyes burn a path on her back as she went to the shelf of classics, her pointer finger grazing down the spine of _Wuthering Heights._

If he had been otherwise affected, he did not show it. “What did you learn from your reading today?”

Sansa turned and rested her back against the bookcase. “I learned that I have a lot to learn.” He waited for her to go on, so she showed her cards. “Why did my father bring us here? Why do the Lannisters control a group of people that hold to higher standards than they do, and control them so well? I never paid attention to what was happening. I hid myself and shrunk into the shadows.” Sansa dropped her eyes to her feet.  “The proud daughter of Ned and Catelyn Stark.”

“You survived. That’s more than the rest of your family can say.”

She wanted to hate him for saying it. She didn’t.

“It should have been me.” Sansa stated quietly.

Baelish’s facial expression hardened. “Don’t be so foolish as to blame-“

“No, God no, that’s not what I meant. I don’t blame myself, I blame _him._ I blame Joffrey.” She looked up, fire in her gaze, and he gave nothing away in his. “He led the group of men that killed my father that night and _lied._ He told everyone my father shot first. My father would have never…” she cut herself off to keep her voice from cracking. “I should have been the one to kill him. If they were going to blame me anyways, I should have done it. I should have wrapped my fingers around his neck and squeezed until his beady little eyes popped out of his head.” Sansa clamped her eyes shut, blood rushing in her ears, Joffrey gasping for air beneath her fingers in her mind’s eyes. That look of fear she saw on his face when she sat across the table from him, she’d barely thought of it.

She was thinking of it now. She was thinking of it all. Cersei’s snide remarks, Tywin’s cold gaze when he relayed the fate of her mother and brother, Joffrey’s lies and insults, Meryn Trant’s beatings. Sansa had pushed down the rage for so long, but it poured over her now, white hot in its intensity.

Petyr watched the wave of anger pour through her and he was intrigued. _Think of what she could do if she would only let it motivate her._ He waited for a long moment, and then made his move. “Do you want to keep hiding, Sansa? Or should I call you Alayne?”

“I don’t really care what you call me, _Littlefinger._ ”

Before she knew what had happened, he pinned her to the bookcase, touching her only with a firm grip on her upper arms. “I asked you a question. Do you want to hide? Or would you like your vengeance?” Confusion crossed her features, canceling out the fury for mere seconds. She made a mental note that he was definitely not afraid to push back if she poked him. Bypassing her face, he rested his lips at her ear. “I could give it to you. I could give you the sweetest vengeance in the world.” Her breathing quickened at the sound of his words, so languid and brutal. “I’ll set them up like dominos, I’ll lay a gun in your hand, and I’ll watch you execute them one after the other until you _bathe in their blood_.”

Shivers radiated up and down her spine as his breath tickled her neck and his offers wound themselves around her, but she couldn’t answer. Her throat felt like it was coated in molasses. He drew back, his mouth just barely brushing against her jaw as he did. She strained to keep any trace of shock or fear off her face, but she knew he’d felt her tremble. Finally she managed, “Why? The Lannisters have been good to you. You thrive under their-” What was the word? Rule and reign sounded too regal for murderous criminals, but it wasn’t far off. Kings and Queens existed in this world. “…leadership.”

“I don’t thrive under anyone’s _boot_.”

And she saw it, clear as day in his stormy eyes. _Power. He wants power, and I want…_ ”I can’t help you. I don’t know anything about any of this.”

He smiled darkly, sliding one hand up to cup her neck and trace a thumb down her throat. “You can learn. And I can teach you. You’re quite clever, Sansa. With some refinement, you could be extraordinary. And with a name like Stark, you could rule this city.” _Who says I want to rule anything? I just want to get away from here._ Her pulse fluttered under his palm faster than a hummingbird’s heartbeat.

“They betrayed my father, they murdered my mother and brother at a _wedding._ Even the people who were on my brother’s side while he was alive hold to the Lannisters now. To them, I’m just a sad teenaged girl. I don’t have power here, not even in name.” Sansa remembered how the men she’d once thought were loyal to her brother came to the Lannister home after his murder, drinking and smoking with Tywin, an unspoken agreement made. She felt sick. “They’ll never follow me.”

Baelish dropped his hand from her neck and placed it on her shoulder. “Many things can happen between now and never.”

She didn’t speak for a long moment, straining to look anywhere but directly at him. He was, however, a patient man, merely rubbing his thumb in circles over the knob of her shoulder while he waited for her to respond. It wasn’t comfort, not exactly. It felt like a reminder. “Say I don’t want vengeance. Say I don’t want any of it. Say I just leave and disappear.”

He seemed to regard that idea with disapproval. “If you run, they will chase you. If you hide, they will find you. It isn’t just about Joffrey dying. You’re a Stark. As long as there are Starks breathing, their power here is never concrete.” He stepped away from her and leaned against the stack of books across from her. She inhaled heavily at his withdrawal, willing herself to relax. _I wanted to know._

“Why not?”

Baelish considered how to respond for a moment. “You asked why your father brought your family back to Chicago. He returned because Robert believed the Lannisters were making efforts behind his back to undermine him.” Sansa didn’t move, she only listened. _Finally someone who just tells me the truth. Maybe._ “I’m sure you’ve gathered from your reading that it is frowned upon for allied families to do such things. He was convinced the only person he could trust was your father.”

“So the Lannisters had my father killed to cover their own tracks?”

He made no acknowledgement of her comment and continued. “Ned suspected that Robert’s heart attack wasn’t a heart attack at all, despite his unsavory lifestyle. And then he discovered that the Lannisters were heading a human trafficking ring out of Cleveland and he had his motive.” _Human trafficking, Jesus Christ. My father may have been a made-man but he would have never endorsed that._ “Tywin would have had the good sense to know that just plain offing Ned Stark was a bad idea, but he was in New York at the time, and Cersei never did a good job of controlling her son.” He looked at her pointedly but she kept her face impassive at his last comment. _He’s right, Cersei couldn’t control Joffrey. But he doesn’t need to know about any of that._

“That’s why there was a split. Men who favored the Starks flocked to your brother and declared war on the Lannister family.” He left it at that. They both knew what happened next. “The Lannisters break the rules and get away with it for three reasons. Money, international ties, and police assistance. Many organized crime groups become a power vacuum after the death of a boss, and usually it leads to a bloodbath. Some higher-ups in the Chicago police force thought backing the Lannister’s might prevent that.”

Sansa crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m sure they’re regretting that now. Do you have friends in the police force?”

“I have friends all over.”

“I’m sure you define “friend” a bit differently than most.” Baelish didn’t reply, he only smirked in response. He might be the first person to actually give it to her straight, but she wasn’t about to forget what he was. _Untrustworthy. Self-interested. Manipulative._ She returned to her hardened mask of feigned politeness, wondering if she’d already given too much away. “Thank you for your honesty, Mr. Baelish. I’ll consider your opinion.”

Deliberately, he invaded her personal space again and presses a kiss to her cheek. “Good.” He whispered against her skin, before moving to her ear, “And please, call me Petyr.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh I'm sorry if this chapter was kind of long and boring and had a ton of dialogue. There's just a lot to establish in AU's and I want to make sure I'm covering my bases with the backstory. I hope all the dialogue wasn't too boring, I tried to spice it up a bit in places :) 
> 
> Anyways, I wanted to also let you fabulous readers know that the wonderful evetakeiteasy (on both Tumblr and 8tracks) made a mix for this story and has just generally been encouraging, kind, and lovely. This chapter is dedicated to her. Here's the url for her (hella wonderful) mix: http://8tracks.com/evetakeiteasy/silver-spoon-sinner
> 
> I also wanted to ask if you guys are interested in seeing the Targs in this story...I have a complicated but (in my opinion) pretty awesome headcanon for Dany in this Mafia world, but I didn't plan on including perspectives that didn't belong or pertain to Sansa and Petyr's story. But then I got sucked in and now my brain is kind of out of control haha. I'm not sure how I would piece her role into the story but it could be pretty rad...what do you guys think? 
> 
> Edit: I also changed the chapter titles to songs from my fanmix and other creepyshipping fanmixes that are rad as hell. That seemed to fit better than the former titles. 
> 
> Still unbeta'd by the way, so there might be some grammatical errors and such, all mistakes are my own. Hope you enjoyed the chapter and have a wonderful day!


	4. it's all gone tomorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I pull the trigger at your command  
> You put the last host of Christendom in my hand  
> Well it was all a lie  
> It was all a motion picture crime

“Sansa.”

She looked up from the book in her lap at the sound of her name. It had been a few hours since their discussion in the library, after which she’d moved her studies to the living room at Petyr’s urging. While she read ardently, he went over paperwork and furiously clicked away on his smart phone, texting or emailing or something of that nature. _Petyr. It sounds strange to say his first name, even in my head._ Even more strange was the odd sense of domesticity, how truly comfortable their silence was. _Certainly more comfortable than when we talk._ She would forget about the half-drunk, cold cup of tea she’d brewed for herself, and before she even noticed it was gone, he’d return with a new one.

“Yes?” Sansa closed the book and set it on the glass coffee table in front of her, sensing that he’d probably want her full attention.

“We’re having guests for dinner tonight.”

She scrunched up her eyebrows. “We?”

“Yes, we. Our guests are quite excited to make your acquaintance.” Her heart dropped through her stomach. _So this is it. He_ is _going to sell me out. How fast does he run?_

Sansa halted her racing thoughts at the smirk on his face. He’d clearly all but read her mind, amusement dancing in his eyes. How could this _possibly_ be funny? “You have nothing to fear from them. We have mutual interests and they harbor no harmful intentions towards you.”

She was still relatively suspicious. “How could you be sure of that?”

Petyr exhaled, vexed that she didn’t simply take his word for it. “I didn’t put down that rabid Lannister boy without a bit of help.”

Sansa exhaled, if only slightly. If their “guests” had helped Petyr murder Joffrey, she at least shared one interest with them. _Dead Lannisters_. “Fine. Who will we have the pleasure of entertaining?”

Before he could answer, Sansa heard the garage door open loudly and jolted a bit before swiftly regaining composure _. I can’t jump at every sudden noise for the rest of my life._ “Ros?” Petyr called over his shoulder.

“Yes, Mr. Baelish, it’s me.” The woman answered, rounding the corner. Her arms carried at least three fairly sizeable bags, department store brands splayed across the sides, immediately looking to Sansa. “Hello, Sansa. I’ve brought you some things!” Ros had seemed quite the serious woman during their first encounter, but now she was wide eyed and beaming. 

Petyr turned back to Sansa. “I took the liberty of asking Ros to pick you up a few items of clothing today. I know you left a lot of things behind at your old apartment.” One moment she was dead set on fleeing for her life, the next he was making some indiscernible gesture of kindness. _He’s not wrong,_ she thought to herself, _I don’t exactly have a varied wardrobe at the moment._ She was acutely aware of her current ensemble, second hand flannel and ill-fitting jeans. _Arya would be proud._

“Thank you.” Sansa said with all the placating sincerity she could muster. She wasn’t sure how she felt about him buying her things, but she had a feeling that buying her clothes was the last thing she should worry about him doing. “I’m sure you have great taste, Ros. I’ll go try some things on.” Sansa rose from her seat to take and bags from Ros and head up the stairs.

“Pick something nice to meet our guests in.” Petyr remarked. Sansa shot him a look, only to see him smiling wolfishly at her.

Her earlier pleasantry turned out to be quite true; Ros _did_ have good taste in clothes. Though, her opinion may have had something to do with the fact that Sansa had been wearing whatever she could find at the Goodwill for the past three months. She still felt irked that Petyr had paid for it, but it wasn’t as though he’d asked her first and she doubted she could stop him from doing it anyways. He didn’t seemed like the kind of man who would ask at all, bossy as he was, masquerading like he gave her a choice when he stacked the deck for himself. _He just does and takes._

Despite all of this, she was appreciative, and pleased to discover that Ros had guess her size accurately. A lot of the clothes were basics that could be easily mixed and matched. Sweaters in light and dark tones, a skirt or two, a pair of skinny jeans, some form fitting t-shirts and tank tops, and one simple, blue cotton dress. A smaller bag contained a couple pairs of underwear and a bra, less utilitarian and more flattering than the ones she had. _Ros, you are a godsend._

She ran her fingers over one of the soft sweaters, remembering what her old wardrobe looked like, how she would attempt to cajole Arya into trying on just _one_ of her dresses for Sunday Mass instead of her practical khakis. The Starks had been good Irish Catholics, with their traditional values and their guilty consciences and their silver Claddagh rings; gold was much too ostentatious for their tastes. Sansa hadn’t known she would miss those Sundays; the whole family piling into the car on a crisp spring morning, the young ones grumbling and the older children stoic, a family large enough to take up half a wooden pew.  

Sansa pulled herself out of that well of longing and turned her attention back to her new clothes. The first thing she tried on was the dress, but it was still early spring, and a bit too cold for spaghetti straps. It looked good on her, though, and she made a mental note to save it for a sunny day. Next she tried on a patterned circle skirt in shades of lavender that fit her at the waist and a black long sleeved shirt with a deep v-neck. The black made a dark pairing with her dyed hair, stark against her near translucent skin. She gathered her hair to one side and pinned it so her dark curls fell over one shoulder and studied her reflection. Sansa still had not grown used to the shade. It changed the way she looked at herself; where she once saw a child, she now saw a hardened woman with a longer face and sharper features. _Sharp enough to cut._ She wondered if there was even a shred of the girl she used to be underneath this steely façade.

Sansa descended the stairs in her new outfit and rounded the corner to see Ros and Petyr murmuring to each other in hushed voices, a noise that stopped when they saw her. “Sansa! You look lovely!” Ros observed.

“Yes, you do.” Petyr agreed, appraising her head to toe. Sansa felt the tickle of a blush rise up the skin of her chest unbidden before it flushed into her cheeks.

She made a careful nod of acknowledgement, refusing to act bashful despite her change in color. “What are we making?” Sansa queried, directing the question at Ros. She desired a distraction just then, a task to occupy her so she didn’t ponder too much.

The woman appeared taken aback, but smiled. “I was going to make chicken cordon bleu. Do you want to help?”

“I would love to.”

Petyr took that as his cue and left the kitchen, intentionally brushing by Sansa as he did, exactly as she had earlier that day in the library. She hid her face from him and pushed away any reaction to his reversal of her own tactic. “So, where do we start?”

Ros gave Sansa the task of preparing side dishes. They worked alongside one another in silence, giving her mind ample space to drift. She thought of long-ago evenings spent helping her mother in the kitchen, listening to her hum a pretty tune. _You look so much like your mother, Sansa._ Petyr’s words narrated the image of her mother’s gentle smile in her mind’s eye, and it made her forehead crinkle once she’d realized that lately he seemed to be sneaking into parts of her mind where he didn’t belong.

Another memory floated back to her, this one of her mother and Petyr speaking in barbed, hushed voices at one of the many gatherings Sansa had attended with her family years before. Catelyn had stolen a glance for her daughter, Petyr’s eyes following, and Sansa remembered the way he smirked in her direction before she turned away and hustled off somewhere to find her father. There was something unsettling about him even then, something unsettling about the words she’d overheard Robert Baratheon say to her father when she’d found him. _He still stares at your wife like he did twenty years ago_ , _the whore-mongering bastard._ Ned had been poised to respond before noticing his wide-eyed daughter standing before him.

Sansa barely registered a voice in the distant present. “What?”

“I asked how you’re settling in here, with Mr. Baelish.” Ros glanced over at the rice cooking on the stove. “Maybe turn that down to medium heat.”

Fiddling with the knob on the stove, Sansa nonchalantly answered, “It’s great. Hot showers, food that’s not from a vending machine. Heaven.” Her cooking companion offered a smile at her little joke, but something lurked in her expression that told Sansa that her real question wasn’t about the house or about her; it was about Petyr. “Mr. Baelish has been…kind. Sometimes I wonder why he bothers.”

“I wonder why he does a great many things. So often, his ends are quite indiscernible to me, even after all these years I’ve spent working for him.” Ros retrieved chicken breasts and pre-sliced ham from the sleek fridge and paused to fix Sansa with her eyes. “Has he…asked for anything?”

Sansa shook her head. “Nothing like that, Ros.” _Not yet, at least._

“What are you ladies whispering about?” They both whirled around to see that Petyr had returned, hands casually in his pockets and head cocked to one side. He probably hadn’t heard them, but his expression was unreadable.

“I’m dreadful at cooking. Ros is trying to teach me how to properly cut everything.” She lied smoothly, returning her attention to the cutting board. “What did you say, Ros? About an inch thick?”

Ros breezed past, busying herself with the main dish. “Yes, that’s perfect.” Her tone was not convincing and Sansa was disappointed that someone who worked for a man like Baelish was not a more convincing peddler of falsehoods. Perhaps, she thought, he liked it that way.

She _felt_ him approach more than heard him. His body heat warmed her back and her heart stuttered and quickened, her wrist trembling slightly. “You seem to be doing just fine.” He mentioned casually, as if he wasn’t less than half an inch from her, literally breathing down her collar. He peered over the exposed side of her neck, and she wondered if her heightened pulse could be seem thumping through her skin, if he could sense her stilling at his closeness. He seemed like one of those people who could smell fear on another. _But I’m not afraid,_ she told herself, _I’m not afraid._ Suddenly, the blade bit her skin harshly and she pulled back, bumping into him roughly and hissing through her teeth.  _Dammit._

“Clumsy, though.” He quipped. Sansa craned her neck sideways to shoot him a look and it was a mistake. His face was whisper close, so close that she could smell a dulled cologne on him, a low spiced note and something slightly sweeter in his breath. Their height matching almost perfectly, and she realized he was holding some of her weight upright and grasping her injured hand in his. He reached in front of her with his other arm to grab a hand towel and press it to her wound, completely encasing her in his arms. Stiff with tension, they never relaxed into each other. Whatever ran between them in that moment seemed to surprise them both, causing time to slow, even stop.

“We need to clean that up.” He rasped, turning her gently in his arms and pulling her with him in long strides.  

She realized, too slow, that he was taking her to his section of the home at the end of the ground floor hallway; perhaps one of the few places she hadn’t gone snooping since she’d been living there. Sansa had poked around to get a sense of the house, but stopped short of his office and sleeping quarters. Quickly, he took her through his darkened bedroom and into the attached bathroom, where he flicked on a light. It was all bright whites and cool tile under her feet. The mirror stretched the length of the room and there were two sinks, which Sansa found odd, considering everything else in the house was made for one.

Petyr pulled a first aid kit from under the sink and sat her down on the edge of the tub like a child with a scraped knee. Tearing her eyes away from the pristine bathroom, Sansa unwrapped her hand to survey the damage. There was an inch long, fairly deep gash just below the knuckles of her middle and pointer fingers. She figured it couldn’t be too bad, considering she saw no bone. Still, it would leave quite the ugly scar, another to add to her external history of wounds. Lost in the thought, she was caught off guard when Petyr knelt in front of her and grasped her hand lightly, dabbing a cotton ball over it.

Sansa didn’t know what he was cleaning her gash with, but it stung, making her jerk slightly and exhale sharply in pain. Petyr grasped her wrist tightly, anticipating her response. “Warn a girl.” She implored through her teeth. He gave no indication he had even heard her speak.

“What was sweet Ros whispering in your ear just now?”

“The fine points of cooking a proper side dish.” She had to force herself not to smirk at her own little joke. Petyr was not laughing.

“Careful, sweetling.” His attention to her cut was gentle, but his words had a jagged edge. “When I ask questions, I like straight answers.”

“Double standard, much?” Sansa mumbled. He gave her an abrupt look, and she could swear the corners of his mouth were upturned. “Ros didn't tell me anything, if that's what you're asking.” She offered. Petyr examined her face, silent as a church mouse. He did not call out her evasive reply, and instead began to wrap her limp hand in gauze. Taking that as an opening to continue, she flipped her tone. “Frustrating, really. I have so many questions.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Such as?”

“How did you know my mother?”

Petyr stilled with her bleeding hand in his. She loved the current of power she felt when she gave him pause. Then, she felt the gentle scrape of his nail down her uninjured palm and suppressed a shiver. It could have been an accident, but it was not, simply by virtue of the fact that he had done it. Petyr Baelish did not so easily make mistakes. His fingers continued their path downward and came to rest at her pulse point. She shifted her knees to one side to avoid impropriety in her skirt, knowing he could feel the drum of her erratic heartbeat.

Finally, he replied, “What makes you believe I knew her?”

She wanted to roll her eyes at this ploy of his; answering her question with one of his own, but played along through her aggravation. “I was thinking about the night we met. I remember seeing you…engaging her in conversation at my father’s party.”

“It was hardly _his_ party, he barely made an appearance.”

Sansa ignored him and continued, “You were arguing. She told me to stay away from you later that night. And yesterday, in my apartment…”

“Yes?” Petyr’s eyes bore into hers, imploring her to say what she meant to, but it felt like a trap, or some kind examination. She started off asking the questions, holding the cards, and not even thirty seconds later he was the one collecting information. It irked her, the way he managed to turn the tables.

“You looked wistful, holding that picture.” He never broke her gaze, but his jaw was set in a hard line. “How did you know her?”

“We were raised together with your uncle Edmure and your aunt Lysa. I was in the custody of her father from the time I was a small child.” Petyr stood and began to re-assemble the first aid kit. “For many years, she considered me a dear brother, but over time acquired a certain contempt for the man I had become.” He took a pause and stole a sidelong look at her before returning to his task, “You look strikingly like her at your age. Right before she married your father.” _Is that why you stare?_

Sansa processed the information while he tucked the first aid kit under the sink. _Raised with my mother’s family. How could I have missed that?_ “There were plenty of things you didn’t know about your parents, Sansa.”

She peered at him with furrowed brows. “Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Reading my mind like a teleprompter. It’s very troubling.”

Petyr chuckled, the tension between them lowering to its average simmer. “I would not be where I am had it not been for my talent with people. Predicting what they may think or do next and adjusting accordingly is an invaluable skill.” He took to leaning against the bathroom counter in a way that seemed casual, but she knew better. Class was in session. “But before you can predict, you must know. Know what a man wants and you’ll know how to move him.”

“What do our dinner guests want?” Sansa inquired, folding her hands delicately in her lap. _Ever the lady, some things never change. Courtesy was once my armor; what armor do I have now?_

He looked pleased with her inquiry. “No one likes to come in second. These people are tired of being second richest, second most powerful, second _best._ They rose quickly, and they’d like to keep moving on up.” Petyr loomed over her, offering a hand. “Everybody wants to rule the city, my dear.”

“Including you?”

His smirk showcased his teeth. “Oh yes.” A dull, automated doorbell tone sounded distantly down the hall. Sansa disguised her hard swallow by taking his help to stand. “All I need you to do is follow my lead. Our guests have arrived.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovelies! Sorry it's been a week already, I got busy with travelling and protesting and suffering after a bad night of badness (tequila, enough said?) Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I swear I meant to squeeze the entire dinner scene into this chapter but then I was writing and three thousand words happened. Whoops.
> 
> Thank you for all your amazing comments, you guys are seriously the nicest people ever and I adore you.


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